


Domestic

by colourinside



Series: Of Monsters and Men [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Being a Witcher is hard, Depressed Geralt, Geralt is a mess, Geralt is still a Witcher...duh, Jaskier is Geralt's self-proclaimed social media manager, Jaskier is a freelance journalist, Living Together, M/M, Mental Health Issues, The thing between Jaskier and Geralt isn't named
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23128228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourinside/pseuds/colourinside
Summary: With death breathing down his neck and rotten monster-breath in his face, Geralt is at his most functional, lest he slows and gets killed. At home, he is burnt out, because once the monsters are slain, Witchers do get exhausted. Sometimes, Geralt is a mess and Jaskier is exasperated but he can't say no to Geralt's adapted version of puppy eyes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Of Monsters and Men [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662481
Comments: 10
Kudos: 179





	Domestic

**Author's Note:**

> This AU was inspired losely by our favourite song: Toss a coin to your Witcher oh Valley of--- and so on and so forth.  
> Based on this, we all know to: Support your Witcher on Patreon. Like and subscribe to your Witcher--- etc etc.  
> And that is how the idea of Jaskier the social media manager took form and the AU basically created itself around that - also thanks to the help of my lovely and very inspiring fellow fangirl CaricatureOfAWitch :) 
> 
> Also, even though this is probably far-fetched due to the AU setting, it has to be said: I have only watched the Netflix series and don't know much about neither the books nor the games, so please go easy on me.

Every time he is startled awake by the rattling of the lock at 4am it’s the same gut reaction: _it’s a burglar this time_. He lifts his head off the pillow, listens keenly for familiar sounds.

Only Geralt stabs the lock with his key, only Geralt opens and closes doors with the sensitivity of a storm, and he knows the sound of his heavy, dragging footsteps as he makes his way to the tap for a glass of water. The deep rumble of throat-clearing, then the shower that sounds almost aggressive at this time of night. When he showers immediately, it means he is probably doused in blood – and other fluids.

The next mornings are usually silent and fall back into a strange, mundane routine. One-week-old dirty pans still stink up the kitchen. Those things Jaskier asked to be cleared away still sit there, untouched, attracting thin layers of dust. The only evidence of Geralt’s presence is the faint, pinkish residue in the bathtub. It looks almost like the remnants of red hair dye around the drain. Now wouldn’t that be funny? At least this time, there is no bloodied gear or armour flung over the edge of the tub. One pleasant surprise balances out the unpleasant. _He does learn_. Though one thing must be firmly stated here: Jaskier won’t be the one to scrub off dried blood and limescale, armed with gallons of bleach and an old toothbrush. Not this time. Geralt still owes him for that.

It’s 8am but Jaskier isn’t going for quiet. The fridge door creaks, the coffee machine buzzes, doors slam. If Geralt can be loud at 4am, then Jaskier won’t do him any favours at 8am.

When he comes back, it’s 9pm. He finds Geralt sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, back against the sofa, munching dry cereal. So far so good. What he doesn’t expect is for the Witcher to lift his head and speak.

“Good morning,” he says, unironically.

“Uh,” says Jaskier, “Sure.”

A scratch splits Geralt’s left brow and there is a sealed cut across his bottom lip, which Jaskier really shouldn’t find sexy – but he does.

“We’re out of milk.” At that, Geralt demonstratively lifts his bowl of dry honey loops.

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “We sure weren’t this morning.”

Geralt shrugs, grunts, “Hmm.”

And that is that. It’s hard to bear watching him stuff the cereal into his mouth, spoon lying discarded on the carpet next to him.

“Well, how about that. _Hmm.”_ Jaskier puts on a disgruntled expression. The Witcher doesn’t look impressed, but he sure looks frazzled. Creased brow, that permanent scowl etched into his features, hooded eyes – deep, deep shadows. A drained coffee cup sits on the table. So that’s where the last of the milk went. Priorities.

“Well, how about,” Jaskier starts again, “you get your lovely arse off the floor and get down to the corner shop? They’re open until 11pm and you can get milk there and everything.”

Geralt doesn’t grant this with a reply, not even a shrug or a grunt. Just a deep, heaving sigh, and he looks at Jaskier through liquid, tired eyes.

Eventually, reluctantly, Jaskier makes the trip to the corner shop. He brings toilet paper, orange juice and milk – _and_ custard creams. Geralt really owes him for that, too.

* * *

A night of fighting, a day of naps and nightmares. Evening coffee, morning snacks. Dinner, lunch, brunch – what even is it anymore. His sleep rhythm is fucked. He fishes – for a t-shirt in the pile of clothing on the floor. The smell doesn’t strike him as odd, so he pulls it over his head, staggers on unsteady feet, feels like he’s going through a hangover, hasn’t had a sip of alcohol in weeks. Cuts and bruises are healing – he assesses them in the bathroom mirror. His elbow is still green and yellow, bone wasn’t fractured though.

It’s 5pm and he is tired. Sleep has come and gone, no sign of rest and peace. He hasn’t checked his phone, his mail, his email, his bank account. One of those days, dry spell. His throat sure feels dry, his stomach grumbles like a grumpy beast. He opens the cupboard, fingers searching for a— wrong cupboard. He closes it, the plates and bowls clatter and rattle, complaining. Eventually, he finds a clean cup, he makes coffee. Evening coffee, late afternoon coffee. The sun hasn’t yet set. There is no inappropriate time for coffee. The fridge door complains too when he opens it, like a whimpering, wounded thing. He grabs the milk carton, pushes at the fridge door with his shoulder. The jars in the side of the door clink noisily.

The steaming coffee cup waits on the kitchen counter, Geralt pours the milk, eager to pick up the hot cup for a sip— he spits it right back out, hot liquid sloshing back into the cup.

“What the—” He reaches for the carton, still innocently sitting next to his ruined coffee. It’s orange juice. Geralt forces out a low growl, the “coffee” goes gurgling down the drain, the carton of juice is placed firmly back into the fridge. So much for the coffee. Not worth the effort of brewing another cup.

He is still hungry, his attention shifts to the quickest thing he can think to make. Usually, he would spoon cold Heinz beans into his mouth or content himself with a bag of Doritos. But this is a proper hunger, which means pasta. There’s a plump new bag of pasta in the cupboard. He grips the edges, pulls—

“Fuck.”

The pasta patters like hail as it hits the kitchen floor, the pieces skitter away and Geralt is left with only ripped plastic in his hands. He growls louder this time, much louder as his frustration hits a peak. So much for breakfast pasta.

By the time Jaskier returns home, the mess is mostly cleared, though Jaskier is sure to find the odd stray piece of pasta eventually. Geralt sits, shovelling Bolognese.

“Hey, um,” Jaskier’s hesitation is irritating, “are you aware that your t-shirt is turned inside out?” – “Hmm.”

He couldn’t care less. 


End file.
